Chapter 3: Midnight Catfish and Old Habits

But when I started the car, I turned away from home and headed back to the office. Sitting in the parking lot, staring at the takeout box on the passenger seat, I hesitated. I wasn’t even sure if Savannah was still at work. But I still got out and took the elevator up. Watching the floor numbers tick up on the display, I got more and more nervous, even regretting my decision.

The elevator crawled up like it had all the time in the world. My palms were sweaty, and I almost bailed and hit the lobby button. But when I saw only her office light was on, I felt a rush of relief. I was glad I’d come back.

I knocked on the glass door of her office. She looked up from her computer, surprise flickering in her eyes when she saw me.

Her lips parted, and for a split second, I saw the Savannah from college—the one who’d sneak out for midnight snacks with me. But just as quickly, her expression snapped back to neutral.

I tried to play it cool. “Had a bit of work left, so I came back to put in some overtime.”

"Thanks for staying late." Her voice was steady, all business, but her fingers fidgeted slightly with a pen on her desk. The air felt tight, electric.

When I kept standing there, she asked, “Is there something else?”

I brought the takeout box from behind my back. “Zoe said this place’s grilled catfish is really good. She knew I’d be working late and asked me to bring you some. Had the kitchen make it fresh.”

Savannah stared at the box, then at me, her gaze searching. Just as I was about to lose my nerve, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Her voice was softer than before, and I caught a flicker of something—nostalgia, maybe? Or was I just seeing what I wanted to see?

I perked up and headed for the break room. “I’ll heat it up in the microwave.”

The walk down the hall felt endless. I watched the seconds tick by on the microwave, mind racing. Was I being weird? Did she even want this? I forced myself to focus on the spinning plate, counting rotations to steady my nerves.

Watching the turntable spin, my thoughts scattered. We had nothing to do with each other anymore, but after seeing her again, I couldn’t help wanting to get close. Was this really a good idea?

The break room was dead quiet except for the hum of the microwave. I stared at my reflection in the glass, wondering if I was making a fool of myself. But honestly? I knew I’d do it all over again.

Suddenly, I caught a whiff of her perfume—she’d followed me into the break room. The microwave dinged. I took out the fish. “All done.”

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching me with an unreadable look. The scent of her perfume brought back a thousand memories—late-night talks, whispered secrets, the soft brush of her hair against my shoulder.

I turned to head back to my desk, but she called after me, “Aren’t you eating with me?”

Her voice was quieter this time, almost hesitant. It made my heart skip.

I tried to decline. “No, I already ate.”

She didn’t insist, just lowered her eyes, lashes fluttering as she awkwardly tried to pick out the fish bones with her fork.

For a second, she looked so vulnerable, so unlike the polished executive everyone else saw. I couldn’t help myself.

I sighed and sat across from her. “Actually, I didn’t eat enough. I’ll have a few bites.”

But I didn’t touch the fish myself. Instead, I picked out the bones and put the clean pieces in a small bowl, sliding it over to her. The motion was so automatic, it was like muscle memory.

We both froze.

My hand hovered in the air, and for a split second, our eyes met. The air was thick with memories. I could almost hear the old dorm heater rattling in the background, smell the instant ramen we used to eat at 3 a.m.

I really had done it a thousand times. In college, I always picked the bones out of her fish and put the clean meat in a bowl for her. It was our silent little habit.

Back then, it felt so natural—just another thing I did for her. Now, it felt like crossing a line I wasn’t sure still existed.

But that was back in college. Given our relationship now, it was really out of line.

I put down my fork and practically bolted. “Take your time. I’ll get back to work.”

I could feel her eyes on my back. What was I thinking?

My cheeks burned. I cursed myself for slipping into old habits. I ducked into my cubicle and tried to focus on my screen, but my mind kept replaying the scene on a loop.

After she finished eating, she went back to her office to work overtime. As long as she stayed, I stayed too. When she finally turned off her light, clearly ready to leave, I quickly got up and pretended I was getting off work too. We entered the elevator one after another.

The elevator ride was silent, the kind of silence that buzzes with everything unsaid. I kept my eyes on the floor numbers, heart pounding. I could hear her breathing, slow and steady, just a few feet away.

She didn’t have a place in this city—she’d just moved back here from overseas. Where was she staying?